


A Day's Work

by melo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Gen, Inspired by a Movie, M/M, Mentor/Protégé
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 14:42:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melo/pseuds/melo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is good at what he does, even if he's considered a lowly temp in the company hierarchy. One day, he'll be recognized for his talents, but until then he'll enjoy the mentorship of model employee Derek Hale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Day's Work

**Author's Note:**

> Adapted from the opening scene of the Korean movie "A Company Man" (2012). It's a damn good movie.

“You’ll look out for me, right?” Stiles says, adjusting his baseball cap for the hundredth time. A strand of his short hair is caught at just the wrong angle, but he won’t take the hat off to fix it. He likes to keep the cap on during jobs, even if it makes him look all of seventeen. He’s learned to feel naked without the bill obscuring his face, something comforting about the slight shadow the peak casts over his eyes and the way the fabric hugs his skull.

“Yes,” Derek says. Terse as always. Sometimes, Stiles thinks Derek wouldn’t say anything at all if more people were versed in the language of eyebrow twitches.

Stiles remembers when he first met Derek, fresh out of the condensed training program with less than stellar reviews – _too unfocused_ , yeah, sure, thanks baldy – from Mr. Gerard. For a moment, Stiles had thought he would be off’d for sure, and – really – who wouldn’t think that if confronted with Derek in all his muscled, suit-clad glory. Derek had strolled into Mr. Gerard’s office, an Adonis machined into perfection. His navy suit sat perfectly on his perfect body, pressed to perfection. His white dress shirt was perfectly spotless, the collar shaped in perfect starched triangles like fangs framing his perfect neck. Even his plain black tie was perfect: perfectly knotted, perfectly centered, perfect, perfect, perfect.

“Stiles,” said Mr. Gerard, “Mr. Hale will act as your mentor.”

Stiles might as well have been off’d. It had felt like he’d jizzed out all his blood, but apparently not. Now Stiles gets to enjoy spending hours on end sitting in cramped quarters with Mr. Silent-and-sexy, pretending like he’s not half hard for every second of it.

Sure, Stiles always gets to get out of the truck to make his deliveries, but the respite is always short and unfulfilling. Today is no different. It might even be worse, what with the pouring rain making it so Stiles can’t even pretend to smoke outside the truck. Stiles knows he should stay alert, but it’s hard to do when the rain makes such fun patterns on the windshield. Besides, Derek will alert him when it’s time, his eagle eyes fixed unerringly on the stretch of street their alley vantage point allows them to observe.

Stiles slouches further in his seat, fiddles with one of his ear buds, and watches Derek from the corner of his eye. Even wearing company coveralls over his suit Derek looks perfect. Derek’s suits aren’t even made of expensive material – Stiles can tell that much – but they’re perfect anyway. Stiles has never seen Derek wear anything else and he’s sure that Derek’s closet is filled with fifty identical suits and ties. The only thing imperfect about Derek’s appearance is the five o’clock shadow that never goes away, but even that is arguably the finishing touch on the masterpiece that is Derek Hale. Derek’s company records are immaculate, his performance – _heh_ – perfect. It’s enough to give Stiles a complex.  

“Do you think Mr. Gerard will let me go corporate anytime soon?” Stiles asks, itching to break the silence.

“No.”

“You sure–?”

“Yes.”

“I mean, I know I don’t have a degree to my name, but c’mon, like graduating from university or even high school would do much for us in this line of work. What use does he have for a bunch of yuppies, huh? I can push paper with the best of them. As for the other stuff, I’m not half-bad, right?”

Derek’s eyes slide slowly to meet Stiles. “You’re all right,” Derek says, albeit grudgingly. Stiles holds in a whoop of victory.

“Condensed training program’s gotta mean something, and I haven’t had to file an employee injury report for so much as a paper cut. Sooner or later, Mr. G’s gonna have to suck it up and acknowledge that I can be more than a temp. I’m just as good as that Allison girl.” Stiles smiles smugly and folds his hands on his belly. “I’ll be rolling in it when I make it to corporate, Derek, just you watch. I’ll get fifty-one identical suits and book first-class flights to the tropics every quarter.”

“That’s what you want?”

Startled, Stiles jerks his head to look properly at Derek. Those were four full words. Five if the contraction counts as two. “Uh, yeah,” Stiles says dumbly.

“The money is good,” Derek agrees, pining Stiles with his sharp gaze. Then after a long pause: “which countries?”

“What?”

“Which countries would you visit.”

“Oh, uh, well... I’ve never really thought about the details,” Stiles admits, recovering from the sudden influx of spoken language. “I just know I want to go somewhere far for vacation, and then.” Stiles shrugs. “Maybe I’ll leave my heart in one of those places and move there for good.”

Derek hums thoughtfully. “You don’t like New York?”

“I don’t _dislike_ it. But a fresh start would be nice. Maybe in New Zealand. They filmed _Lord of the Rings_ there, y’know, and it looks gorgeous on Google Images. And it’s kinda close to Australia and Australia’s got all the cool deadly things like blue-ringed octopi–”

“There’s no such thing.”

Stiles stops, confused. “No such thing as blue-ringed octopi?”

“Fresh starts.”

“Oh.” Stiles laughs. “Quiet, you. It’s rainy enough without you doom-and-glooming all over my dreams.”

Derek doesn’t smile, but the corner of his right eye kinda crinkles, and in Derek-speak that’s close enough. Stiles doesn’t bother to hide his grin. “What about you, huh? What would you do with– or, actually– what are you _planning_ to do with the loads and loads of money you’re already making?”

A furrow appears between Derek’s brows. “I pay my bills and–”

“No, no, I mean your, uh, _retirement_ plans, ‘cause you sure as hell can retire early. Tomorrow, even. And at– what–? Thirty? Good job, you old-young man.”

Derek frowns. He turns his face back towards the windshield. He’s quiet for a long time and the patter of the rain is loud on the roof of the truck. “Retirement,” Derek finally murmurs like it’s a foreign word.

“Really? You’ve never thought about it? You, the guy who always has plans A1 through Z6 at hand? Wow. I guess you’re not perfect after all.”

Derek’s frown deepens. “I’m not perfect.”

Stiles snorts. “Tell that to Mr. Gerard. That is, if he can hear you from where he’s stuffed his head up your ass.”

“That’s disgusting–”

“He’s so far gone, he’s found light where the sun don’t shine–”

“Shut up.”

Stiles shuts up. Derek’s posture is suddenly impeccable, those two degrees of slouch he must’ve adopted at some point gone before Stiles even fully realized they were there. His eyes are fixed on the sedan that’s just pulled up near the mouth of the alley. Men clamber hurriedly out from each door, the driver and three of the passengers swarming around the fourth passenger as they hurry out of the rain. It’s quite a downpour. The fourth passenger’s tan suit is dark brown by the time they make it to the side door of the building that edges the alley.

“It’s time,” Derek says in a curt and professional voice. It’s jarring after their almost amiable chatter, and Stiles feels suddenly lonely.

“You’ll look out for me, right?” Stiles asks again, feeling another bout of pre-job jitters coming on.

Again, Derek agrees tersely, but Stiles swears there’s something soft about it for once.

“Okay,” Stiles says, adjusting his baseball cap for the hundredth-and-first time. That strand of hair is still caught at an uncomfortable angle, but there’s no helping it now. He quickly makes sure he’s wearing his company vest over his hoodie and checks that his shoelaces are securely tied. He fingers the transceiver in his hoodie pocket and secures the connection with the ear buds – not that Derek ever talks to him, but at least Derek can hear what Stiles is up to. He wiggles the ear buds into his ears and tugs gently, testing their placement. “Okay, okay, okay,” Stiles chants.

“Go,” Derek says and Stiles goes, shooting a crooked grin over his shoulder as he hops out of the truck. Derek doesn’t so much as smile. He might even look a little sad, but Stiles dismisses the thought. He can decode the nuances of Derek’s facial expressions later. Right now he needs to focus. Focus.

Stiles focuses, ignoring the instant drenching he receives from the sky and rounding the truck. It’s only a three-axle single unit, so Stiles is throwing open the back within a few strides. He ignores the stacks and stacks of banker’s boxes in favour of the one banker’s box placed near the opening. He picks it up and cradles it to his chest, trying to shelter it from the rain as he closes up the back and bolts to the side door the sedan passengers used mere minutes ago.

The door opens without issue into a narrow hallway. Stiles walks quickly and doesn’t acknowledge the camera perched in the corner, trusting that Derek has handled it. A few left turns later Stiles finds a bank of elevators. He impatiently presses the UP arrow, and hops into the first elevator to arrive. Stiles allows himself a small smile when he finds that it’s empty, but the smile vanishes as a hand jabs its way between the closing doors.

“’Scuse me, fifth floor,” the man says, not sounding apologetic at all as he ambles into the elevator with a friend. Stiles glances at the already illuminated button for the fifth floor. He mimes pressing the button before the man can see it’s already lit, and then presses the button for the fourth floor. The doors close. The two men settle against the walls on either side of Stiles as the old elevator slowly heaves itself up.

“Couldn’t you have put some plastic over that?” the man with the huge nose asks from Stiles’ right, his lips twisted in contempt as he indicates the banker’s box in Stiles arms. The cardboard of the box is damp.

“Couldn’t you have put some plastic over _all_ of that?” the man with blond hair asks from Stiles’ left, his eyes sweeping over Stiles from head to toe. Stiles is soaked and water drips from the bill of his cap onto the lid of the banker’s box. Stiles doesn’t bother to wipe any of it away.

Nosey snorts derisively. “Fucking useless. You deserve all the hell you’re gonna get when you deliver that ruined shit.”

Stiles can’t help it. “How do you know it’s ruined?” Stiles blurts. The back of his neck is hot with irritation. He knows it’s bright red too, but he ducks his head anyway, trying to avoid making things worse.

Nosey guffaws. “Oh, it’s ruined, all right. Look at that box.”

“It’s just a box. You don’t know what I’m delivering.”

Nosey doesn’t bother checking the company name printed on the back of Stiles’ vest, not even trying to ascertain what product Stiles might carry. Stiles hears the rustle of cloth before it happens. Nosey cuffs at the back of Stiles’ head, and Stiles dodges to Nosey’s frustration, keeping the box balanced in his arms. “I know enough, you little shit–”

“Cut it out,” Blondie says, absently watching the floor numbers light up above the door as they pass. Blondie’s head tilts as he frowns. “What _are_ you delivering?”

Blondie’s question is forgotten as the elevator dings and the doors open to the fourth floor. Stiles rushes out, staring fixedly at the little puddle forming on the lid of the banker’s box. Focus, he reminds himself, trying to calm down. Focus.

“Elevator’s a no-go,” Stiles whispers, knowing the transceiver in his pocket will let Derek know. “Taking the southeast stairs.”

The fourth floor appears deserted and Stiles quickly makes his way down the narrow halls, consulting the building plans burned into his memory so that he arrives at the southeast stairwell by the most efficient route. The stairwell is dimly lit, each floor separated by two parallel sets of stairs connected by a landing. Stiles walks sedately up to the fifth floor.

The fifth floor is the highest floor of the building. When he reaches the landing of the fifth floor, Stiles observes that the door opens towards the railing edging the landing. When entering the stairwell via the fifth floor, he will need to be careful. If he bursts through the door and forgets to make a quick right towards the descending stairs, he’ll likely barrel into the railing, flip over the side, land head first on the flight of stairs below, and break his neck. Stiles makes a note not to rush his exit.

Stiles begins to bob his head as if he’s listening to music over his ear buds. He peers through the narrow window in the door that opens onto the fifth floor. He sees a narrow hallway lined with towers of banker’s boxes, as if the private businesses that occupy the offices of this hall are in the middle of a big move. Towards the other side of the hall – about fifteen yards from Stiles – is a group of five men. The one wearing the tan-turned-brown suit is fumbling with a keypad on the door to an office on the left, his fat face shiny with sweat as he uncertainly keys in code after code. The oblong birthmark on his left temple stands out against his sallow pallor.

Target confirmed, Stiles pulls open the door and steps into the hall, elbows tucked against his sides and banker’s box pulled tightly to his chest. He bobs his head to imaginary music and walks down the narrow hall. A narrow hall is not ideal, but there are gaps between the towers of banker’s boxes, alternating as they stack against the wall: left, right, left, right. He walks forward: left, right, left, right, left, right. He bobs his head. He focuses.

It takes a moment for the group of men to notice him. When they do, they scatter and regroup around the man in the tan-turned-brown suit who looks confusedly up at Stiles’ approaching figure.

“Who’s there? What are you doing up here?” one of the men yells angrily.

Stiles ignores him and keeps walking and bobbing his head. Mostly, his head is tilted downwards, just enough to shadow his face under the cap, just enough to not obscure his line of sight.

“I said, what the _hell_ are you doing up here?” the man repeats. His companions exchange glances. Their hands twitch nervously at their hips.

Stiles stops. He flexes his hands and readies himself.

A door bangs open directly on his right and Stiles’ head snaps towards the sound.

“Please wash your hands,” Blondie says. “Fuckin’ rain always makes me piss like a race horse...” Nosey trails off when he sees Stiles. Nosey’s eyes narrow. “What are you–”

Stiles can pinpoint the moment that Nosey realizes Stiles’ right hand is shoved through a hole cut in the back of his banker’s box. Nosey’s eyes widen and Nosey’s hand flies to the Glock tucked in the back of his pants, but he’s far too slow. Stiles is already holding a gun.

Stiles turns and shoots Nosey through the banker’s box. Then Blondie. Stiles doesn’t watch them tumble to the ground, only makes note of their downward momentum as he runs at an angle, forward and to the left. He wrenches his SIG Sauer P226 out of the banker’s box, whipping the empty box at the five men in front of him and shooting once through it. He hears a scream and ducks down against the left wall in time to avoid a spray of bullets. Seven rounds. Four men.

It’s only been a few seconds since Stiles’ first shot, and all the men have finally managed to pull their guns out of their pants – _heh –_ to yell and shoot wildly in Stiles’ direction. On reflex, most of them shoot at the incoming box, wasting all their ammo in their panic. Some of the fluorescent ceiling lights are blown out in a spray of glass that plunges the hall into semi-darkness. There’s a pause when the tattered cardboard strikes one of the men in the face, the soft smack of it nearly silent amongst the hurried rustle of clothing and the clicks of reloading guns. Stiles takes the opportunity to shoot as he dives forward and to the right. His shot is met with another scream. Stiles can’t tell if it’s a new voice. Six rounds. Four men. Just in case.

Stiles doesn’t pause once he hits the right wall. He lets the momentum of his dive carry him, kicking his legs forward and practically running up the wall. He kicks banker’s boxes from the tops of their towers and nearly hits his head on a ceiling panel as he twists and pulls the trigger twice. Two more bodies join the one already on the floor before Stiles lets himself fall, pushing off the right wall a final time to tuck and roll towards the left. He ignores the deafening report of more gunfire, the yelling and panicked cries, the spray of plaster and particle board popping around him. He feels like an armadillo caught in the Matrix and Derek’s always berated him for flashy risk-taking, but Stiles knows how to use the element of surprise and good timing for the sake of an unobstructed line of sight. Four rounds. Two men. Green temp or not, Stiles knows he’ll rival Derek’s efficiency one day.

Stiles uses the reflection of a business placard on a nearby door to quickly gauge the situation. There are indeed two men left. The man in the tan-turned-brown suit is curled in a ball by the keypad of the door, desperately jabbing at the buttons and wrenching at the door handle as tears stream down his blotchy face. The other man holds a gun, swinging it wildly left and right, spooked by shadows and imagined movements, recklessly firing shots into the walls and banker’s boxes. One of the shots sends a puff of shredded paper over Stiles’ crouched form. Then there’s the empty sound of dry fire and a frustrated wail.

Stiles springs from his cover and launches forward. Quicker than the gunman can react, Stiles’ left arm swings down to swipe the gunman’s hands down, knocking the empty Glock to the floor and leaving the gunman’s head exposed to the swift pistol whip Stiles delivers to his temple. The man crumples to the floor and Stiles finishes him with a clean shot to the head. Three rounds. One man.

Stiles turns to the man in the tan-turned-brown suit. Stiles suspects the brown on the seat of the man’s pants has less to do with rain than fear, but Stiles doesn’t do more than wrinkle his nose in comment.

“Please!” The man is crying hysterically, shuffling away from Stiles on his knees, his hands in the air. “I was never going to talk! I swear! I swear! Please!”

Stiles always hates this part. It’s one thing to pop a man’s head off when he’s got a gun in Stiles’ face and a fresh clip in his belt. It’s another when he’s snivelling and defenceless and begging the wrong man for mercy. Stiles has no idea who ordered the delivery or what this guy did to deserve what’s coming, but it’s what Stiles was trained for. It’s his job.

Stiles shoots the target in the head. Twice, just to be sure.

The whole gunfight took less than five minutes, but no one bothered with silencers, so Stiles is already on the move. Stiles races back the way he came, leaping over bodies and debris. He notices Nosey’s hand still twitching as he passes and fires his last round to finish him off. So sometimes he takes more than one bullet to fell a man, whatever, not everyone can be Derek. Stiles did a pretty good job. No injuries and a full clip still riding in his pocket.

“I’m coming down, Derek,” Stiles whispers as he swings open the door to the southeast stairwell.

A hand snaps out, striking Stiles in the throat. Stiles chokes. In the same movement, the hand wraps around Stiles’ neck, a second joining it to twist his head painfully. Stiles can hear his vertebrae grinding. Then he’s being thrown forward into the railing. The collision with the railing knocks the breath out of him. The force tips him over the edge. His body flips in the air as he falls onto the flight of stairs below. The steps cut into his back, his spine, the spaces between his ribs. The ceiling is a brilliant white and Stiles can’t breathe or think or do more than lie where he has fallen.

His assailant’s footsteps echo in the stairwell as he slowly descends. The man sits on the steps next to Stiles and Stiles knows who it is before Stiles sees him. Stiles wants to cry.

“I really– am– just a. Temp,” Stiles rasps. He starts to laugh, but it hurts too much to.

“Don’t take it personally,” Derek murmurs. “It’s just work.”

Stiles blinks wearily. His cap is missing and his scalp feels cold and wet. He doesn’t have the strength to nod, but he understands. Only a complete idiot would never anticipate getting killed on the job when guns and knives are part of the uniform, and Stiles isn’t a complete idiot. But he never thought it would be so soon, or that it would be his own company. He never thought it would be Derek.

Derek’s gloved hands are warm on Stiles’ skull; on the soft underside of Stiles’ jaw. The scent of latex is repugnant. Derek leans over as his hands tighten and prepare to twist. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t look at Derek. “A– a favour,” Stiles gurgles.

When a few seconds pass and Stiles is still alive, Stiles dares to crack open an eye. Derek’s stoic face peers down at him. Derek’s fingers loosen minutely and Stiles remembers how to breathe. Stiles’ lips are dry but he doesn’t bother to wet them. “I have– savings,” Stiles tells the ceiling above Derek’s head. “Give them to my– to my dad. Tell him I’m– I’ve gone corporate. I’m going to work overseas and I– I don’t know when I’ll be back.” Stiles’ throat burns. His eyes feel hot. “Tell him I’m sorry, and I’m not angry anymore.”

Stiles finally looks at Derek, but his face is unreadable and shadowed by the lights overhead. Still, Derek is the most gorgeous person Stiles has ever seen. They’ve never talked about family before. Intimate details are taboo for a good reason, but he trusts Derek to do as he asks.

It would be nice to see Derek nod though. Some reassurance. But Stiles is tired and he doesn’t realize his eyelids have slid shut until he opens them. When they close again, he can’t find the energy to peel them back.

“Stiles,” Derek says, and Stiles hums in acknowledgement. “I’ve always wanted to see kiwis.”

“Check the fruit aisle, Der.”

“I mean the birds,” Derek says.

It takes a long moment before Stiles understands. It feels like he’s floating when Derek gathers him up in his arms. Stiles lets his head rest against Derek’s collar, nudging Derek’s tie askew when the silky fabric tickles his nose. Each step Derek takes jostles painfully, but Derek’s hand braces Stiles’ neck, and the heat of Derek’s bare skin soothes his hurts. Stiles smiles weakly to himself and listens to Derek talk about blue-ringed octopi.


End file.
